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12.
THE PUNGENT SMELL OFraw onions, the thick cigarette smoke, and the sickly fried fat odours started to clear thanks to the increased airflow through the narrow openings in the top of the bus’s windows. Gabi swallowed the last bite of the tortilla she’d struggled to eat since they’d got onto the bus. She sat back, thankful for the window seat Aisha had insisted she take and gazed through the scratched glass. These seats were designed for children, though being this snug against Aisha was worth the unpleasant journey.
The bus passed through what Aisha said was the main street of Sacromonte, where most of the tourists came to experience traditional flamenco, though the best flamenco took place in their homes further up the hill on a night after work. The bus continued along an increasingly narrow and winding road further into the hills. They took a sharp bend with a severe drop, and the tortilla did a quick flamenco with the acid in Gabi’s stomach. If she’d known what was involved in getting to Matías’s workshop, she would have suggested waiting until after her lunch had digested.
“That’s the Alhambra,” Aisha said. “You have to visit it sometime.”
She pointed across the centre of the bus towards the reddish stone fortress opposite them. Gabi got a whiff of vanilla perfume and closed her eyes to fully appreciate the gentleness and warmth it evoked.
“The poets named it ‘a pearl set in emeralds,’ because it stands out from the forest of English elms around it.”
“We English get everywhere.” Gabi smiled and focused on the dark green trees densely packed around the palace. The vista was set in a deep blue backdrop that rose from the hills. “It’s pretty.”
“Yes, it is. ‘Verde que te quiero verde,’” she said.
“Nana said that earlier. Does it mean something?”
“It means everything. Lorca wrote many poems about passion and love. He was the Gypsy Poet. He is one of my favourites.”
Gabi loved the way Aisha spoke, full of admiration and excitement, and with a certainty that Gabi wished she had. “I never read poetry,” she said. “I flunked school, to be honest.”
“Poetry is the language of love. I have a small collection of books. I learned English reading them. I could show you the best second-hand bookshop here.”
Gabi nodded. She wasn’t into reading, but she’d go anywhere if it meant she could spend time with Aisha. “I’d love to.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the coffee shop at ten-thirty?”
Gabi smiled. “You’re going to introduce me to poetry?”
Aisha smiled. “Yes. I wish I could have met Lorca. My abuela did. The elders sat with him on many nights and talked and listened.” She glanced around the bus and leaned closer to Gabi. “He was murdered by Nationalist forces during the Spanish Civil War.”
“My grandparents were murdered by them too.” Gabi took a deep breath as Aisha leaned against her arm. War was cruel, and both their families had suffered at the hands of the authorities.
“The civil guards were evil,” Aisha said.
Gabi had avoided them on the street. In their green uniforms and baseball caps, with guns at their side, she was sure they would eagerly use, given the smallest excuse. “They’re still scary here,” she said.
“Is it the same in England?”
“No. The police don’t normally carry weapons, and they don’t patrol the streets like they do here. At least, not where I live. It’s a quiet village, and you get more of a feeling of safety and support than fear.”
“That sounds nice.”
“I guess.” She smiled.
“Being arrested for doing nothing wrong still happens here.”
That wiped the smile from Gabi’s lips. The concept was sickening. She stared out at the whitewashed houses that marked the neighbourhood from others within the city and wondered whether Nana had met this poet or Aisha’s abuela. The houses looked less well kept, dirtier, greyer up-close set against the tall dark English elm trees. There was a weight to this history that she was a product of, and as foolish as it might be, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had been affected by it.
“We’re nearly there,” Aisha said.
The bus slowed, and the air inside quickly reverted to the heady mix of odours that reminded Gabi of all the reasons why she’d never eaten from her local fish and chip shop. She fought the urge to fill her lungs, though she desperately wanted to breathe deeply. The bus crawled to a stop, and she couldn’t get off quickly enough.
“Welcome to Sacromonte,” Aisha said.
Gabi bent double and took in a few deep breaths. She felt Aisha’s hand on her shoulder and rose slowly. “Sorry, a bit travel sick,” she said.
“You look pale.”
